


Earth and Ash

by Destina



Category: King Arthur (2004)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-25
Updated: 2011-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-28 02:02:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/302515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Destina/pseuds/Destina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Snapshots of a legendary friendship, from its beginning to very near its end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Earth and Ash

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sasha_b](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_b/gifts).



> A Yuletide Treat for sasha_b.

**I. Water**

For many years to come, Arthur would remember his first sight of the boys: cold, pale, with their hard nervous stares directed toward him. It was tempting to hover near the pond, but he would not be a coward. He had his dead father's honor to think of now. Though his knees knocked together and his teeth chattered, he needed no urging to go to them. They were to be his men, Pelagius had said. His own knights. He must do what was right.

When they dismounted, each was dwarfed by his horse, but one most of all, a slender boy with curly hair. The giant black beast which had borne him there pawed and stamped at the frosty turf, and the boy petted it absently, comforting himself as much as the animal. Arthur watched him; the boy watched him back.

"I am Artorius," he said, and knew his mistake the moment he spoke his Roman name, for the flash of disquieted disgust on each face made it plain. "Arthur," he amended. "You may call me Arthur."

Each in their turn, they gave him their names and their fathers' names. Galahad, who was quick of tongue and smile; Gawain, whose eyes flashed mischief. Bors, who even then seemed to be spoiling for a fight, and Dagonet, who was latched to Bors' side, unwilling to leave it for even a moment. And Tristan, who was by turns serious, and eager, his curious stare darting around in search of clues to what his new life might hold.

The last to speak was the boy with the great horse, and he said simply, "I am Lancelot."

Arthur nodded. His tongue felt as though it swelled in his mouth. He could barely speak. He swallowed hard, looking at the pale faces of those boys, and said with as much brave firmness as he could, "They tell me I am to be your commander. But I would be your friend instead, if you will have my friendship."

The boys looked to one another, shifting uncomfortably. Arthur watched them, uncertain if he had made an error in judgment. The Roman officers chuckled low to themselves. Arthur's shoulders straightened. This was his keep, and his father's before him. He need not tolerate insolence from the Romans.

Lancelot was the first to speak. "I will be your friend, Arthur," he said softly. "If you will be mine."

From the moment they clasped hands, it was settled. They would run as a pack, as wild and free as the wolves in the woods.

The days passed quickly, disappearing into each night the way water from a stream flows past, and there was no time to worry about who was in charge. Arthur was full of ideas about how he might best accomplish the mission Pelagius set forth for him. The other boys seemed not to care for his high-minded notions, intent as they were on adjusting to the strangeness of a Roman camp. All except Lancelot, who quietly hung back, talking with Arthur about the oddest of things, from the number of stars in the sky, to how best a man might kill another in battle.

It was all theoretical to them, then. How times were to change.

Lancelot was fond of sitting halfway up the slope of every hill, where he could watch those down below in his quiet way. It was there Arthur found him on the eve of his first month far from home, a small token in his hands. "May I?" Arthur said, holding out his hand for it.

Without hesitation, Lancelot handed it to him. Arthur held it for a moment, and found it still warm from Lancelot's touch. There was no meaning to it he could decipher, but then again, no one would understand why Arthur kept a scrap of cloth from his mother's dress, either.

He handed it back without asking any of the questions foremost in his mind. Someday, he hoped Lancelot would tell him what it represented, if Arthur was worthy of knowing such a precious thing. "I promise you," Arthur said, meeting Lancelot's eyes, "that one day, you will be free, and you can return home to your family."

Lancelot nodded gravely, as if he believed Arthur. Quietly, he said, "I think I shall not die old, Arthur. I am meant to die young."

"Do you ask God to protect you?"

"Your god is not my god," Lancelot said, tucking his token away, out of sight in his pocket. "It is not the business of the gods whether man lives or dies. Only that he fulfill the life he is meant to lead."

On impulse, Arthur slung an arm around Lancelot's shoulders. "Then you will not die young," he said firmly. "Because I will not, and where I go, we all go."

Lancelot's smile flashed quick and brilliant, but faded as soon as it arrived. What went on in Lancelot's head, Arthur could not say, but he meant to find out.

They were to be friends, after all.

 

 **II. Stone**

"Again!" shouted Arthur, striking out toward Bors with all his strength. Bors easily blocked the blow and sent another Arthur's way, hard enough to stagger him.

Arthur countered with two strong strikes, and Bors tripped as he evaded, all balance lost. In the blink of an eye, he was sprawled in the mud, a look of surprise on his face.

The others began laughing, as if they had not spent time on their asses just where Bors lay. Arthur scowled. It made him unreasonably angry, seeing their glee. "Were this a battle, Bors would be dead," he shouted. "Run through by a sword, or trampled by a horse. Would you be laughing then?"

"Arthur," Tristan began, but Arthur had no patience for it, and he threw his own shield aside.

"No more today," he said, stalking back to his quarters.

The moment the door closed behind him, the clammy cold of the room encircled him. Mud covered his arms, his hands, itched drying on his face. He found it difficult to breathe. The weather had been frigid for weeks, and for the last several hours, his fingers had felt near frozen to the hilt of his sword.

He would never be a good soldier if he could not make the others take the training seriously. Somehow, he would have to make them see.

In the privacy of his rooms, he warmed a kettle of water and washed his arms and face. The steam seeped into his bones as he shed his sodden clothing and traded it for fresh woolens. There were days he felt far too young for what he must do. What they all must do, if the others were to find freedom.

It was his responsibility. Their lives were in his hands.

A soft rap on the door, and before Arthur could even shout at the intruder to go away, Lancelot let himself in. He was still muddy and drenched; the rain was pelting harder now.

"They meant nothing by it," Lancelot said, edging past Arthur to warm his hands by the fire. "It was a difficult day."

"Battle will not be easier than training in the cold," Arthur grumbled.

"True enough." Lancelot turned then to look at him, and Arthur nearly winced at the reproach in his eyes. "They will follow you, Arthur. We all will. We will learn what we need to learn, and fight until we die with honor."

Arthur nodded. The coldness seemed to have migrated inside him, churning in his belly. The idea of any of the others hurt, or dead, was not acceptable. He could not dwell on the thought of Lancelot bleeding on the muddy ground.

He shivered, and Lancelot stepped closer. Arthur had privacy none of the others had; it was a privilege of unearned rank. An unimaginable luxury, in some ways.

"Stay here," he said to Lancelot, on impulse, and was gratified to see that quicksilver smile cross his ordinarily serious face. "Have supper."

"Only if you don't subject me to talk of battle and strategy."

"You have my promise," Arthur said, pointing at Lancelot's dripping cloak. "Warm up by the fire. There's bread, and wine."

They sat companionably late into the night, and the ache in Arthur's chest eased every time Lancelot smiled, or spoke passionately about the best method of training horses.

Arthur had never truly had a friend before. The unsettled fear of losing Lancelot was only because he had something to lose. Gradually, that terror shifted into gratitude, and Arthur fell asleep by the hearth, Lancelot curled next to him as if there was nowhere else he would rather be.

 

 **III. Fire**

 

Their first test in battle was over as quickly as it began. Forty men against twelve of Arthur's knights, including all the best of his inner circle - Bors, Tristan, Gawain and Lancelot, who stood shoulder to shoulder with him, bodies vibrating, waiting for the first blow to fall.

After, Arthur could think of it only as a collection of moments, each one distinct in his mind: the smell of horse and blood, mingled together; the cold press of the sword hilt in his hand, like it was an extension of his arm; the first time he struck true and severed a limb from another man; the scream of agony his actions wrought.

From there, it was a blur, one after another felled by his blade until he turned, seeking another enemy to engage, and found only his own men.

It was a victory, but the hollow feeling in his chest had returned, more strongly than ever.

They walked among the dead, taking the measure of the battlefield. Bors was giddy with triumph, and Dagonet an echo of Bors' joy, the two of them like wild things, pushing and shoving and grinning, the last vestiges of aggression leaving them. Arthur watched each of them in turn, aware of the hot thrumming in his own blood. It sought an outlet, but there was no one left to kill; his men were too efficient. He had seen to that. In this, at least, he could take pride.

Lancelot stood nearby, and Arthur went to him, stood so their arms were pressed together from shoulder to elbow. The contact soothed him, and Lancelot did not move away.

"Shall we make camp?" Lancelot asked, not quite as calm as he liked to appear. The fine tremors in his arms gave him away. Whether or not they were fatigue, or something more, Arthur could not tell.

"No." Arthur glanced up at the weary faces around him, and then at the bodies littering the ground at their feet. "It is only a few miles. I would rather not sleep on this ground tonight."

They rode in haste, as if speeding toward a battle, rather than away from its end. Arthur thought of Lancelot's hands, of the way he turned in battle, catching Arthur's eye. Of how he wielded his sword, so quick and deadly. He had been beautiful in battle. Arthur supposed he should feel shame for thinking it, but he cared nothing for that now.

It was no surprise when Lancelot dismounted his horse and followed Arthur, silently, while the others went their own way. It was no surprise to see him turn and bar the door to Arthur's own chambers.

What was a surprise was the way he stood waiting, his eyes on Arthur. Even as Arthur tossed aside his cloak, stripped off his breastplate, Lancelot never looked away. He put his hands to work on his own clothing, matching Arthur piece for piece until they stood naked before each other.

It seemed a fitting end to battle, this joining. Arthur reveled in Lancelot's hands against his skin, and the way Lancelot's fingertips stroked down the line of his back when their mouths met. They moved as one, burning from the inside, a consummation of fire and blood, urgent, until both were spent.

After, they curled together as they had as boys, but unafraid this time of touching and being touched. Arthur did not tremble when he touched Lancelot; Lancelot was strong and sure when he laid his claim. Now they knew one another, held all of the secrets between them, a spark the others would never see.

 

 **IV. Earth**

"It's very...round," Tristan said dubiously.

"You are ever perceptive," Gawain said, drawing laughter from the others.

The group of them moved in a line around the table, admiring it without words. Arthur stood aside. Which seat each man would choose, and how this would be decided between them, was not his concern.

"I will sit here, nearest the door," Bors said, eyeing Dagonet, "the better to catch every wench who carries the wine!"

"You don't need any more wine," Dagonet said, sliding into the chair next to him without fanfare.

"You don't need any more wenches, either," Lancelot said, and there was laughter again, and a wink from Bors.

Lancelot took a place for himself, followed by Tristan, Gawain and Galahad, who were always thick as thieves. The others filled in around them, and a silence fell once all the men were seated. In the flickering torchlight, their eyes glittered with expectant happiness.

"Here, all men are equal," Arthur said, and lifted his chalice. "Here, we find our strength together, each a part of the whole. May it always be so."

"May it always be so," they echoed, and drank as one. His knights. His friends.

He walked alone in the woods that night, until Lancelot found him, and they sat shoulder to shoulder in the mist.

"It's a noble idea," Lancelot said, leaving all the unsaid words to make his point.

"Perhaps it's doomed to fail." Arthur pulled off his glove and placed his warm hand at the back of Lancelot's neck, fingers curling there.

"We are all doomed," Lancelot said. "There's a comfort in accepting it. Why do you think we fight as well as we do?"

"Because you dream of home," Arthur said. He knew what it was, to dream of something he couldn't see, couldn't touch. At least for his knights, there was something tangible to find, to return to.

"No," Lancelot said. "I harbor none of those dreams." He turned toward Arthur's touch, and Arthur kissed him, a rare indulgence. Lancelot pulled him closer, deepened their connection, always seeking to be what Arthur most needed.

"I can't help but dream," Arthur said.

"Of Rome?" Lancelot's eyes were shadowed, and hard to read.

"No," Arthur said. He stroked his thumb at the back of Lancelot's neck, steady. "Not of Rome."

 

 **V. Wind**

There was a succession of women in the year before Lancelot's service to Rome was concluded. Genaria, with her red hair and sparkling blue eyes; Seah, with the wide hips and equally wide grin. Others as well, some who had wanted Lancelot in their bed for many years, but had never thought they stood a chance of tumbling him.

Lancelot had them all, but politely, as if he could maintain a semblance of decorum by failing to show overmuch interest in them beyond the pleasures they offered.

Arthur watched from a distance, aware that something had shifted, but not able to put his finger on what it might be. Lancelot still sought him out after battles, still caught his gaze and held it across their wide, round table when the direst discussions were underway.

Change was coming, and Lancelot seemed ready to take flight.

"I don't think I was born to stay in one place," he said to Arthur in the deep of night, when Arthur had spent himself inside Lancelot's body. "The wanderlust is upon me. There is much to see in the world beyond these lands."

"There is Rome," Arthur said, or offered, perhaps; even he could not have sworn which was his intention.

"There is Rome. And more," Lancelot said, rolling to his side, his slender back to Arthur.

Arthur lay awake long into the night, wondering whether Rome was the answer to all his questions, or the end of them.

 

 **VI. Ash**

Lancelot sharpened his weapons, each in their turn, in the long night before departing for Rome. Arthur sat and watched him, unafraid now to be caught looking. There was no more time to create regrets.

"There are all kinds of freedom," Arthur said softly, as he took the stone to the edge of his own blade. "You will find the one that suits you." Even with the comforting weight of the sword in his hand, he could still feel the touch of Lancelot's fingers against his own, and the cold in their absence.

Women passed by them, carrying buckets of pitch and torches, bound for the fields. Lancelot glanced up, the firelight reflected in his eyes, a strange and warmthless gold.

"The taste of ash is on the air," Lancelot answered, his hand making its sweeping motion, up, then down, across the blade.

"Perhaps the wind will change." Arthur stilled his hand, drinking in the sight of Lancelot, one last time.

"Do you remember what I told you, long ago?" There was no need for Lancelot to elaborate; Arthur remembered the way Lancelot had looked, that first time they spoke of death. They had been so young.

"I remember telling you things would not end as you foretold."

"You always did fancy yourself a better soothsayer," Lancelot said, and his small smile warmed Arthur's heart.

Smoke drifted by, pale in the dim light. "What tomorrow brings, no one can say," Arthur said, a fragment of truth from an unexpected prophet.

They prepared for battle in silence, tasting the bitter smoke as it began to fill the sky, obscuring the sun.

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on the movie King Arthur. By which I mean, this story is not grounded in any sort of historical accuracy, and it also does not conform to most of the familiar legends. Many thanks to D. for her quick beta!


End file.
